Paving the Road to Hell
by Meridian1
Summary: What is the price of a life? At what cost freedom, security, survival? Ana remembers the penalty others have paid for her life.


**Title:** Paving the Road to Hell  
**Author:** Meridian  
**Rating:** PG-13 (much talk of death, nothing graphic)  
**Summary:** What is the price of a life? At what cost freedom, security, survival? Ana remembers the penalty others have paid for her life.  
**Spoilers:** SPOILERS FOR THE END OF THE MOVIE. If you don't want to know how _Dawn of the Dead _ends, do _not_ read this. You have been warned.  
**Author's Notes: ** Ever since _Night of the Living Dead_, there's been a real, well, downer side to horror, especially post-apocalyptic films, of which the zombie menace is one facet. If you've seen _Night_, you know that every good turn results in death or destruction, and by the end of the film, you're just grinding teeth at how _close_ you can get, but how hopeless it really is to try. Wouldn't someone have noticed that by _Dawn of the Dead_ (2004)?

*******

It didn't pay to give a damn. 

Luis had tried to help Vivian. His last words were a pitiful, terrified, helpless cry for her to call for a doctor to help the girl. That cute, attentive, whip-smart girl who liked to hang out with Ana on the weekends because she 'could see her school friends whenever she wanted and Ana wasn't around as often.' Who she'd promised to go skating with when she had a free moment. Who Luis _flew_ out of the warmth and comfort of their bed to help. Who then had ripped out his jugular with her teeth, exposed to the gums because someone-some_thing_-had shorn through her lips.

She, in turn, had attempted, futilely if determinedly, to save Luis from what the medical professional in her knew was inevitable exsanguination. She fought blood loss and her own rising panic, stanching the bleeding with the pillow case that had been under their heads less than five minutes before. All the while, that..._creature_ that had done this to Luis banged hard against their door, hard enough to rattle the wood in the frame. 911 was a last resort but a lost hope; she needed help, needed stitches to sew up the wounded carotid artery that was spurting out Luis' life onto their bed. 

In the midst of frantic redialing, she caught movement in the corner of her eye, and it saved her life. Phone forgotten, she stared at Luis, stuttering and unsure how to phrase the worry  
_ Luis, Luis are you okay?_   
the scolding-  
_ No, no, Luis, don't stand up, don't move you'll make it worse!_  
and the disbelief   
_ What was he doing standing up? _How_ was he able to? _  
911 was his only chance-_she_ was his only chance, and she would never let him go without a fight. It was just that she hadn't intended on fighting _him_. She'd held his life in her hands, and he'd turned right around and tried to _kill_ her. Had burst through the bathroom door to get at her as she scrambled on the slick porcelain of their shower-where they'd made love a few hours ago-and out the window.

Those two incidents fried out any altruism innate within her or engendered by her profession. She couldn't remember how many people-were they people or more of those things?-banged on her car, asking for help, all of them ignored. When Kenneth had found her, she could only half-heartedly beg him for the pity she hadn't shown. _Please_. He didn't kill her, and she discovered she could still care, even if she didn't trust her instincts to do so. To care was to commit suicide. It had taken all of a few hours spent in the company of the abrasive C.J. to reaffirm her commitment to people; if not caring and self-preservation turned her into someone like C.J., then maybe she was already dead and what was the point of living?

Only it didn't really get better. It hurt more to care. Suddenly, there was Andy across the street to worry about, a truck full of survivors, more people, more problems. And the old people-the ones she'd come to the mall with-she wasn't even sure about them any more. Kenneth never said enough, never. Andre had disappeared with Luda, leaving the rest of them with a ridiculous excuse-they wanted to have a 'natural birth' which meant they wanted to go it alone and _why hadn't she seen through that?_ Michael was more...complicated. His way of caring confused her, defied her internal sense of logic. With him, it was the group good over the individual, but wouldn't they cease to be a cohesive group-were they _ever_ cohesive?-if they lost people's trust? Somehow, though, he was right, and she felt herself drifting into the safety net of his survival instincts. Maybe they couldn't save _everyone_, but if they were vigilant, maybe fewer people would die. If they worked together...

Then they tried to save Andy. Andy just needed food, and they killed him when they let in the ghouls with the goodies. Nicole took off after Chips, killing Tucker in the process because not everyone who left could make it back. And not everyone who came back had left the mall in the first place. Each time they attempted to preserve life, they lost it. When the second bus overturned, something in her had snapped. No more. _No more_. She would not lose Kenneth or Monica or Glenn or Terry or even that asshole Steve. People had died trying to help, Luis helping Vivian, her, nearly, helping Luis, Luda, Andre, Norma, Norma...

Her turn, now. There was still time, still a way to save Kenneth, Terry, Nicole, C.J., and Michael. If she had to die helping, she would die helping him. Helping all of them. It seemed assured, as the monsters closed in. She had ducked under one rotting, putrid arm, felt something clawing through her hair, ripping a chunk of her ponytail free of her head. She made it to the bus, to where Michael was screaming her name, flush with concern in his tone and hot blood in his face. Pulling her inside as C.J. blew to bits the ghouls so he could close the door, Michael had yelled at her, why, why, _why_ would she take that risk? Because she had to save him. Save them. There was no reward for altruism, but she couldn't let them die, couldn't let them make it as far as the docks only to fail anyway because she'd granted Steve's request and blown his brains out.

Her first concern wasn't with bites. If she were bitten, it was in the name of the group, and they would understand. Michael would understand. There wasn't much of a chance that she _hadn't_ gotten at least one bite, not in that crowd of putrid fiends. She half expected it as she did a quick once over. The jean jacket was tough and _intact_, so were the rest of her clothes and her skin._ For once_, there had been a good turn repaid with good fortune. Michael's answering smile when she showed him the keys was too good to be true. And the problem with things too good to be true was that they were called that for a _reason_.

Staring at Michael now, she realized that she hadn't been skipped. She was still being punished by god, fate, karma, whatever, for trying to save lives. It was her turn to kill, her chance to sacrifice her guardian angel and the savior-saint who came to her rescue. No matter that she'd saved Kenneth, Terry, and Nicole by grabbing Steve's keys from his corpse. Michael had saved her, reaching in among the horde on her heels, and yanking her out of hell and into the haven of the bus. And he was standing on the pier with a mouth-shaped mark on his arm from where he'd put himself in danger to save her life. Unlike her, he had not managed to escape this endless cycle of biting the hand that fed-if someone helped you, they were fucked. Michael helped her, so he was dead, as she lived and breathed.

"Oh no, Michael, _no_. Not _you_. _Please_."

He didn't sound happy, but he wasn't mad, not at her or any of them for surviving, which turned her churning gut to twisting more painfully still, knotting itself wildly. _Not him_. There was something, there had to be something she could do. She would help him, let the cycle complete itself and let herself die, but she had to stop this. He couldn't, not for her. She couldn't get away, unscathed, again. It wasn't fair.

"I can help you." She begged, tears in her words and in her eyes. And he smiled, told her it was okay, kissed her hand as she slipped away from danger _again_ and he stayed behind. Kenneth asked if Michael was sure, was sure this was the right thing. It was, as much as she hated it, like she had hated killing Frank, killing Luda and Andre's baby. It had to be done for the group, and Michael was willing to do it. They weren't even going to help him with that. He sent them away.

But he wasn't going to do it while she watched. His eyes stayed on hers as they drifted apart. He wouldn't, couldn't do it. Cruelly, the bite came between them again, as his gaze drifted to his arm and then, she gulped down sobs, to the gun he'd tucked in the back of his pants. Enjoy the sunrise. They were going on a cruise, an escape, and Michael was staying behind to watch the sun rise over what was left of man: him and the howling mass separated from him by the broken pier. Soon, she couldn't see his eyes, lost his silhouette, memory substituting the image of the gun for Michael. That gun would be left behind, but Michael was gone. All the steely determination, the optimistic realist he had been, that would unexist because of her and that fucking gun. There would be no more Michael, not by the time the sun had climbed high in its arc.

All there would be was memory. Alone on the seas, the four of them would have nothing but memory. They had to remember for the world, if the world survived this. The rules, they knew, how to stop infection-  
_You couldn't. A bite is a death sentence._  
how to stop the creatures-  
_Just shoot 'em in the head._  
the way to survive. They had to remember how to be cruel to a few so most would live. And she had to remember, had to remember for Michael because he couldn't any more.

It didn't pay to give a damn. 


End file.
